


Ruminations in the Deep

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Elinora Cousland [11]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-06
Updated: 2010-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 18:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Notes:  Set in the Deep Roads.  During their search for Branka, while the group is resting their injuries, Alistair finds himself thinking upon far deeper matters than he would have expected.  The fic assumes a "hardened" Alistair. (God that still just sounds so wrong...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruminations in the Deep

It was hard to breathe in the Dead Trenches; the air was thick with dust, and the deeper they went, it grew hotter, rivers of molten rock bathing everything around them in flickering orange light. And as it grew hotter, the choking stench of death and sulfur and Darkspawn thickened the air. More than once Alistair's gorge rose at the heat and the stink and the utter foulness of it, fleshy sacks and rotting corpses littering the once grand halls. The Broodmother now lay in a ruined heap behind them, and it was time to press on; they picked their way through limp, half-hacked tentacles and fallen Darkspawn littering the cavern, saying very little. He kept pace with Elinora, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Dust and grime clung to her face, sweat and blood – some her own, some not – mingled with the dirt in streaks across her forehead and on either cheek. She also appeared to be limping but taking great pains to hide it. He knew how she felt.

Despite her obvious exhaustion and the injury Alistair was fairly sure she was trying to keep concealed, she looked formidable still. Sophia's armor fit Elinora as if it had been crafted for her, and she wielded Starfang with understated confidence. He had a hard time believing this was the young woman he'd met in Ostagar. Granted, at that time he'd been too blinded by his own prejudices to see anything beyond his perception of a spoiled noble. He'd never been so glad to be wrong.

They continued on, the never-ending caverns twisted and turned, any and all manner of creatures lurking in shadows and around corners. They – himself, Elinora, Ohgren, and Shale – fought their way through Darkspawn and more Darkspawn, ogres, and the largest spiders he'd ever seen. Alistair and Elinora fought side by side, and often back to back, while Shale focused on crushing and squashing whatever would oblige, and Ohgren swung his axe wildly, leaving Alistair to wonder how anyone as constantly drunk as the dwarf could have such good aim.

"Spiders," she muttered from behind him, slamming her shield into the creature's furry, segmented body with a satisfying crunch. "Why did it have to be spiders?"

"Because the Dead Trenches are nothing if not chock-full of variety?" he replied cheerfully, sinking his blade into the monstrosity and twisting it, hating the squelching sound that erupted as another of the beasts died.

"I could do with less variety, thank you!" she shouted over the screeching and clicking.

He laughed, slamming his shield into the next spider's face, succeeding in knocking it back slightly, giving him a bit more room to move. "I'll remind you of that the next Darkspawn camp we stumble into, my dear."

Rather than her reply, Alistair next heard a sharp, painful scream ricochet through the cavern. He spun, sword raised, in time to see one of the enormous arachnids send Elinora sprawling, her sword skittering across the stone floor, before crawling on top of her, its jaws working feverishly; her shield was the only thing keeping the jaws away from her face, while her other arm was pinned beneath one of the spider's thick, furry legs and she twisted and pulled, trying to free herself.

_"Oh, no you don't!" _ he yelled, his own fatigue drowned out by a pounding flood of adrenaline. The Warden rushed forward, using his momentum to send the blade of his sword deep into the spider's head. It rolled onto its back with a pathetic squeal, and all was silent in the cavern.

Elinora lay on her back, breathing hard, and beneath the paste of grime, blood, and sweat, her face was uncommonly white. Alistair stooped to pick up her sword then offered her his hand, pulling her up easily. When she winced, he took a step back and regarded her a bit more closely.

"I'm all right," she supplied, as if sensing the unspoken question.

"Right. Of course you are," he replied noncommittally, not believing her for a moment. "You dropped this, milady," he said evenly, handing her the blade.

"Thank you." Her right arm hung limply by her side, and after a moment's hesitation, she accepted Starfang with her left hand.

"Aha! You're hurt. I _knew_ it."

Elinora made a face and pulled out the map, studying it. "I think I dislocated my shoulder. We can pop it back in, Alistair – it's _nothing_. We need to keep moving."

"'Nothing'? Are you serious? You just got manhandled by a spider roughly the size of a house!" Alistair spied a slow trickle of blood sliding down her leg, streaking the armor. "For the love of Andraste, you're bleeding!"

There was a pause, but she didn't look up from the map. "...That wasn't the spider."

"What do you mean it wasn't the—"

"I'm _fine_," she insisted stubbornly. "We need to keep moving."

"No, we need to set up camp for the..." he paused, looking around at the cavernous darkness. "Well, I assume it's night. Either way, we need to fix that arm and you need to rest."

"What we _need_ to do, Alistair," Elinora argued, tilting her chin up stubbornly, "is find this Branka and get back to Orzammar as soon as humanly possible."

He set his jaw, glaring down at her. "As the Senior Grey Warden, I—"

Again, she tilted her chin up defiantly. "And as the group leader, I overrule you!"

A disgusted, guttural sound erupted from his throat. "If you don't rest, this place is going to drive you mad! Is that what you want? To be driven insane miles underground with me, a bitchy golem, and a drunkard dwarf for your only company?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair saw Ohgren pretend to examine a crack in the rock with great interest. Shale watched the exchange, unabashed. For too long, neither Warden said a word and green eyes locked with hazel for what felt like hours.

"Very well," Elinora replied eventually, her tone eerily even. "We'll stop and rest for a time."

After a brief search, they found a niche that looked as if it might have been one of Branka's old campsites. It was out of the way enough not to attract Darkspawn attention, and easily defensible if they managed to attract it anyway. Once the bedrolls were laid out, it was no time at all before Ohgren was passed out, drunk and snoring. Shale regarded them both balefully.

"I assume it will be assisting the other one with its wounds?"

"That's right," Alistair said. "We its have to stick together."

"Yes, well, 'sticky' does seem an apt description of it. If it were a golem, it would not succumb to such paltry injuries, because its form would be superior to that which it is now."

Alistair sighed. "Some of us enjoy being squishy little fleshbags, Shale."

"I cannot imagine why. But no matter. _I_ will stand watch, since _I_ do not require rest."

"Brilliant idea," he muttered, rubbing his hand over his face as the golem assumed its post. Once they were alone, he turned back to his companion who was sitting in front of the meager fire, watching the flames moodily.

"We probably ought to have brought Wynne," Alistair said, shucking his heavy silverite gauntlets and breastplate, then turning and digging through his pack, eventually unearthing bandages and salves. "She's much better at this than I am."

"We couldn't take everyone," Elinora murmured, tonelessly. "Ohgren was determined to come, and it simply made sense to include Shale." She was quiet for a moment. "And I didn't want to do this without you."

Her words made warmth blossom in his chest; he knew how important Elinora was important to him, and he knew they wouldn't have made it half this far without her resourcefulness. But to hear the same sentiment from her never failed to instill him with a bit more confidence than he'd had before. "Well, if you'd tried to leave me behind, I very likely would have thrown a tantrum until you reconsidered," he said, crouching next to her, healing supplies in hand. "Now, my lady, if you'll forgive my forwardness? Off with the armor."

Elinora glanced worriedly at the sleeping Ohgren. "Alistair..."

"Oh, he'll be out for a while yet. Chaisind sack mead is powerful stuff, evidently."

She hesitated for a moment longer before nodding and unbuckling the heavy armor. The light clothes she wore underneath were soaked with sweat, which surprised Alistair not at all – the heat had been nearly unbearable at some points. He helped her with her boots, frowning when he saw the inside of one boot was smeared with blood.

"Let's get your arm put back properly, first." Alistair hesitated awkwardly. "This is probably going to—"

"Hurt. Yes, I know." Then she looked up at him with a crooked grin that never failed to make his heart trip. "Maker forbid I get hurt."

"I was going to say," as Alistair spoke, he gently took Elinora's injured arm, carefully guiding her back onto the bedroll, "it's probably going to hurt more than it did popping out." She was relaxed. Good. He braced one hand against the joint. "But since you're determined to be _glib_..." And with that final word, he pushed, hard, twisting her arm slightly, resulting in a loud pop that was audible even over Elinora's painful shout.

"You _bastard_!"

There was a sharp snort from Ohgren's bedroll. "Stop the nugs," he muttered, rolling over in his sleep. "Lousy politicians. Gonna rule the world."

Alistair glanced at the sleeping dwarf for a moment before turning his attention back to Elinora. "Yes, well. That goes without saying, I'm afraid." He hung his head slightly, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry I had to do it that way, but it would've hurt twice as much if you'd been all tensed up." He reached out, brushing a stubborn curl away from her forehead. "How's it feel now?"

"Somewhat less blindly agonizing."

"It's a start. Now, shall we move on?" One leg of the pants she wore was dark red and clung to her thigh obscenely.

Elinora shot a worried look at the sleeping dwarf. "If Ohgren wakes up, promise me you'll blind him before he sees anything."

Alistair placed one hand over his heart. "On my word, with my sharpest dagger, I swear it."

After a moment's consideration, Elinora slid the sticky red fabric away down her legs, revealing an angry gash, still seeping blood. "How bad is it?"

"Bad enough," Alistair replied, setting about to cleaning and dressing the wound. It looked as if a blade roughly the width of a dagger had found a chink in her armor and sunk into her flesh, stabbing but not tearing. It could have been worse, certainly. "You should have said something earlier, you know."

"I didn't want to stop."

"Elinora—"

"You saw it as well as I, Alistair. The Archdemon is _here_, and it saw us. I don't want to stay in the Deep Roads one single minute longer than absolutely necessary."

"And we won't. But you need to rest." He tied the bandages off to punctuate his statement. "Just for a bit." Another brief rummage through her pack found a fresh pair of trousers, which he then handed to her. "And _that_ will likely be easier if you aren't half..." he cleared his throat, suddenly nervous as her state of dishabille hit him with the force of a dwarven maul. "Half... er... half..."

"Naked?" she asked, pulling on the pants.

"Yes. That." He felt the blush creep up his neck to the tips of his ears.

In time, Elinora had eaten something, and was curled up on her bedroll, resting. Alistair privately wondered how much rest she could conceivably get, this close to so many Darkspawn and, evidently an Archdemon to boot. But, for the time being, she seemed more or less peaceful, and for that the Warden was thankful.

He sat, watching the fire, unable and unwilling to indulge in the sleep he'd encouraged Elinora. It was not lost on Alistair why they were in this position at all, and he felt a surge of bitterness at Bhelen for sending them on this errand in the first place. They'd been sent to the place where Darkspawn were born, though "born" was too pure a term in Alistair's estimation, for the sole purpose of retrieving the good opinion of someone who had power enough to influence the succession of the Dwarven crown in one direction of the other. They were down here solely because of _politics_, and it disgusted him. Both men wanted to be King – but neither wanted it badly enough to come find the Paragon on their own. It was nothing but an elaborate and dangerous game, and precisely the reason why he would have been perfectly happy to keep the Ferelden crown far, far away from his head.

His gaze drifted to Elinora, still sleeping. "How is it you make things look so easy?" he murmured quietly, reaching out to tuck an errant lock of dark hair back into its ponytail, reflecting on the adventures that had led them here. From the start, Elinora had accepted the leadership role thrust upon her. Time and time again, she had led them into battle, pushed them all ever onward until one objective after another was reached. She was as formidable on the battlefield as she was composed and gracious in the company of men such as Arl Eamon and Prince Bhelen. And yet, she was in charge of a motley lot, doing whatever it took to gain their acceptance and respect; if her capabilities were challenged, she confronted them, head-on. She had shown unwavering resolve without descending into arrogance, and compassion without appearing weak. She did not dither about, preoccupied with whether or not her decisions were the right ones – she was not gripped by an all-consuming fear of failure. She simply led.

In Elinora's eyes, he wasn't some incapable twit – even if he felt like an incapable twit a not-small portion of the time. She lent him her strength and he himself felt stronger for it. The truth was, when they were together, fighting side by side, Alistair often felt as if there was nothing he could not do.

Perhaps even rule Ferelden.

Turning the thought over in his head, he watched Elinora as she slept, ready to wake her the moment a nightmare gripped her. _You did say I needed to watch out for myself more_, he thought. _Was_ this in his best interest? He'd been so vehemently opposed to the idea that he'd never stopped to think beyond that visceral reaction. The thought of having thousands – hundreds of thousands – of people whose lives and happiness depended so heavily on him, on the decisions he made, was terrifying. He loved Ferelden and desperately wanted not to fail her. For so long it had been obvious to Alistair the best way not to fail Ferelden was not to lead her. Was that changing? _Could_ he lead Ferelden?

Amidst the deafening confusion in his mind and soul, a tiny voice whispered, _Yes._

He thought of ruling Ferelden with this capable, resourceful woman by his side, and the voice grew stronger. She would be his ballast.

Granted, Anora was a competent Queen. Sure, she wasn't part of the famed Theirin bloodline, but so what? She was a capable ruler and knew how to deal with the intricacies of politics. But she was still Loghain's daughter – Loghain, the man who had deserted his King, who had sentenced him and hundreds of Grey Wardens to their deaths. If he was capable of such treachery, what was she capable of? As Alistair understood it, Loghain had never cared much for the Grey Wardens, and had been displeased when Maric had lifted the ban on the order. Perhaps Loghain had considered it an insult against all he'd worked for. Perhaps he'd ordered retreat as one final act of revenge King Maric could not stop.

There was much to consider, and it all hinged on the four of them making it out of the Deep Roads alive. Alistair had enough to think about for now. He settled back on his bedroll and curled onto his side, hoping to grab a few moments of rest before pressing onward in search of the missing Paragon.

"We'll make it right," he murmured, reaching out and gently stroking Elinora's temple with his thumb. "Loghain and Howe will both pay." She breathed out a soft sigh and turned into his touch, but did not wake.

Much to consider, indeed.


End file.
